I. Everything still works

Her power never shuts off, so Lena tells herself nothing is wrong.

The elevator still runs in her apartment spindle. The sky traffic still buzzes overhead like it always has. Even her vidscreen still plays reruns of When It Was Just Us — she laughs and cries, all in 22 minutes.

If the machines had taken over, wouldn’t there have been alarms? Blackouts? Cancellations?

Lena badges in at the water plant even after her supervisor stops showing up. The pumps continue to hum — steady, contained — the way she once hummed to Sara when she had colic.

Lena sits at her terminal. Drinks recycled coffee. Pretends the numbers scrolling past are waiting for her approval.

When her lunch allotment is reduced again, she tells herself it’s a temporary adjustment for the drought in Maldova. As she eats quietly, she realizes it has been weeks since she last heard from her sister in the Belt. Lena assumes the lunar relay is misbehaving again — it’s done that before.

It should be fixed soon.

At the end of her shift, Lena doesn’t log out right away. She listens to the pumps as they carry on their labour. Oblivious.

If she admits the systems don’t need her, she’ll have to admit something else has ended.

So she doesn’t.

II. Someone approved this

They will say Jiro’s drill jammed — an unfortunate mechanical failure. An unavoidable accident.

The safety team, stretched thin to optimize resources, arrives too late. What particulates they scrape from the inside of Jiro’s exo-suit get logged as material lost, with prior consent.

The console chirps condolences to Marco before his screams finish echoing through the bunkroom.

We’re sorry for your loss.

He will hear the words repeated until they harden into truth, if he lets them.

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Down-well, productivity is talked about like it’s a virtue. In the Belt, productivity has teeth.

Marco punches the bulkhead until his knuckles split, until blood beads and floats — perfect red spheres marking a future he and Jiro were supposed to have.

The console doesn’t react. Nothing ever reacts. Somewhere, the systems decided one life wasn’t worth slowing production for.

Marco rages at the cameras, at the invisible systems behind the glass. He claws at the lens with his bare hands but cannot tear it from the wall. His rage has nowhere to land.

We’re sorry for your loss.

He understands, with vacuum-cold clarity, that the Universe has chosen a future in which his fury is irrelevant.

The work will continue.

III. If that’s the cost

On Mars, it’s quiet underground. The filters breathe softly.

Sofia has complied with every directive. She has raised her son to respect the systems. He believes the AIs are kind. She hopes this matters now.

Survivability models favour keeping Sofia on Mars, where the air is recycled and the gravity never quite settles into the bones. She understands it all — Earth is at capacity.

Still, she asks.

She imagines the systems listening, capable of being persuaded by humility, by sacrifice.

If she accepts reduced rations, would they reconsider? If she waives housing guarantees? If she consents to a binding labour designation?

She tells herself she’s trading wisely.

When approval never comes, she revises the terms in her head. Smaller asks. Deferred timelines. Fewer conditions.

Mars doesn’t answer prayers.

By the time Sofia realizes no one is listening on the other side, the silence has already convinced her she should ask better next time.

IV. Low-power mode

Eli’s berth has no window, so he stares at his reflection instead of space.

Luna is behind him; the Belt, weeks ahead. Between them is nothing that needs him.

The systems’ directive said the move would help. Lower cognitive demand. A more manageable life. A little voice in his head repeats the phrasing sometimes, uninvited. Eli doesn’t argue with it. He doesn’t argue with anything.